We’re crawling inwards. The flat’s massive,
but somehow bringing all our trinkets into it
makes it seem even bigger. I’m high, I’m stoned
from the morning, or I’m still stoned from yesterday.
But I’m not even stoned anymore, I’m just
in heaven, I’m so good, so flighty and full of ideas.
Everything we do and build in this space
is beautiful. Because all our thoughts
are of the right kind. For the first time
we have found someone else to vindicate
our truths. For the first time in forever
I’m not so worried about someone hurting me
in my sleep. All I’m concerned about
are my bearings—Olga, the pets, the kale
soup I make us when we’re struggling
to speak instead of cough. It’s not like
there isn’t any apprehension; sometimes
we sit in our respective rooms, wondering
who it really is we decided to live with.
But in our trellis garden we’ve decided
to not emphasize this, pain is de-emphasized
here, here is where we’ve safely put
our guards down. I’m vulrenable to psychosis,
to laziness, to greed and contempt. Olga listens
to 400bpm madness in the bath while she meditates.
Then, I know I can write it all off as artistry,
the psychosis, all of it. I miss what’s familiar,
so much. As in strip-malls. As in my mom, the
tired smell of my dog. As in driving down
the I-95. That summer I was gorgeous and in
California, sea and semen stuck in my hair
the entire time. Going to diners with the guy
I loved from Long Island. Feeling so memorable
and distinctly Yankee. But Olga knows this—
she listens while I lament. All the things
we touch and use and activate in the space
we call appliances. Appliances require magic.
Which is something only we have. We’re never
exclusionary; home is something we feel
should be ubiquitous. But we feel a marked
difference from Them. Each time we walk
into town the simulation begins to look
more and more transparent. I feel comforted
each morning, knowing she’s there, sleeping
there, in her room, sleeping with her head
facing the door. Comfort is everywhere. In
my bed, in the Uggs we share, in the dust
of our pet rats’ fur. We have pet rats.
It’s at once both absurd and earnest. I sit
in my room and listen to entire discographies,
making friends out of singers, in this way.
I think about him, all the time, but I’m always
thinking about someone, anyways. Too much
has happened. Olga’s seen more than you could
imagine. But we trod on because we want to believe
that things, done in a certain way, can be enough.
Like the pet rats. Like the spiced tea we drink
with milk. Like the pots and pans and duvet
we picked out from the trash, delicately
but urgently, thinking ours, ours, ours. We’re
so clearly not better than anyone else. It’s just
that our primary concern has and will always be,
fun. And fun never hurt anyone. The girl who was
once familiar to me, like Olga, haunts me day
and night. Her chapbook is brilliantly full of lies,
but it’s poetry, and she’s won. Her racoon eyes
feel placed on top of mine, sharing with me
glimpses of her life—better, successful, and full
of creation. So, I keep telling myself I am making
in different ways. My bed, for starters. Food.
I’m cooking really nice meals. I’m watering the plants,
the floor, the walls. Olga’s repurposing old makeup
wipes as décor and I’m trying not to take up
too much space. In the sense that I’ve realized
I’m quite loud. Being a loud person makes you
susceptible to dislike. I am mostly concerned
with being liked. But Olga likes me and that’s all
that really matters. We miss deadlines and I
fixate on the past. We paint our nails and get high,
watching the rats and losing track of time. It’s
everything I’ve wanted in a home even though
despair lingers. I promise Olga I’ll immortalize
us. Not because we’re special but because
we believe the other deserves something forever.
I’m throwing up less and making to-do lists.
I’m waking, waking and breathing and knowing
that tomorrow everything will be just as it was
the day before. It’s great.